Highland Escape (32 page)

A loud commotion echoed beyond the curtain wall, bringing shouts and clamoring from within the keep.
Elliots? MacGregors?
Stark fear shot through her.
MacNairn will not let me leave alive—or unmolested.
Her gaze cut to the door, half-expecting him to charge the room, intent on taking his anger out on her before he killed her. It was doubtful she would live long enough to be rescued. Whatever their plan of attack, she knew if she didn’t find some way to escape her current situation, the clans would be too late.

Though the night was cool, perspiration trailed down her face and her body shivered. She feared infection had set in the poorly treated wound, further limiting the amount of time she had to escape before she became disabled by weakness.

The new moon offered scant light, but provided a shadowed covering to hide her if she could escape this chamber. She shifted again on the bed and discovered she could bend enough to reach the bonds with her teeth. In a frenzy of hope, she struggled to untie the first, then used her free hand to quickly untie the other, rubbing blood and warmth back into her cut and bruised wrists. Retying the leather, she reluctantly slipped her hands into the loosened bonds and lay back on the bed, waiting for the devil or one of his lackeys to appear.

It wasn’t long before voices sounded in the corridor. The MacNairn stationed a guard at the door, then placed the key in the lock. As he entered the room, Anna closed her eyes to slits, feigning sleep. He loomed over her and she felt his presence, smelled it, suffocated in it. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to attack and it took all the discipline she possessed to remain relaxed.

Climbing onto the bed with her, MacNairn straddled her hips, crouching above her on all fours. Anna felt his hot, vile breath on her face as he leaned forward and licked her cheek. Without warning, she thrust her hips upward in a violent motion, throwing him forward into the stone wall, face first. Blood splattered warm across her skin.

He moaned, stunned from the impact. Quickly, she slipped her wrists from the loops. Bringing her legs up around his head, she trapped his neck and one of his arms in a vise-like grip. She pressed her legs tighter, the pressure on his neck cutting off the blood flowing to his brain.

Unable to utter more than a guttural protest, he flailed about, throwing them off the bed, almost dislodging her hold with the fall. Anna hit the edge of the bed frame hard, and a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through her side. She ignored the pain and flexed, squeezing tighter as his face turned a dark purple-red. His body flopped forward as he passed out, and she released him to scramble quickly onto his back. Grabbing his chin in one hand and his hair the other, she twisted his head with all the force she could muster. The resulting crack sent MacNairn to meet his son in the afterlife.

She listened for the guard to react to the sounds of their thrashing about, but realized he likely believed his laird to be simply enjoying himself—vigorously. Dismissing the thought with a snarl of disgust, she rechecked the room for clothing, finding none. Left with no option, she took the laird’s. Dressed in a leine that stank of him, Anna forced the revulsion out of her mind as she put on his kilt, buckling his broad leather belt about her much smaller waist, and more importantly, snatched his
sgian dubh
.

Looking closely, she recognized the small blade Duncan had given her with the MacGregor crest. No doubt MacNairn had considered her dirk a sort of trophy. She shoved her feet into his boots, but they were much too large, more of a hindrance than help, and she kicked them aside.

Calming herself for the next part, she made sure MacNairn’s body lay hidden by the bed. Lifting the bar from the door, she opened it only a crack. Dagger drawn, she crouched behind the portal.

The guard stole a look into the room. “Laird?” he called tentatively. Placing a hand on his dirk, he stepped into the room and took a sudden step toward the bed before he halted. Springing from behind the door, Anna kicked the back of his leg, driving one knee to the floor. A quick draw of her dagger across his throat sent him sprawling, bleeding his life out into the rotted reeds. She shut the door and barred it, kneeling to unbuckle the guard’s belt and collect his weapons. In addition to his
sgian dubh,
he carried a bollock dirk almost as long as her short swords, and a broadsword of questionable quality.

Out of breath from exertion and weak from fever and lack of food and water, she fought a wave of dizziness as she wiped sweat from her brow. With the immediate danger eliminated, she attempted a deep, calming breath, but the pain in her ribs cut like a blade. She hissed through the agony and waited for it to pass, then strapped on every weapon, feeling more confident now that she was armed.

She glanced out the window as the noise outside rose. From the distance to the ground, she appeared to be on the second level of a three-level tower with a wood-and-beam structure above her. Searching the guard’s sporran, she withdrew a large flask of whisky.

After opening the shutters on the window to allow more air, Anna piled the small wooden table and two chairs atop the bed. She used the whisky to soak an old tapestry hanging on one wall. The top of the moth-eaten fabric reached high enough for flames to ignite the floor above. She emptied the rest of the contents of the flask on the heather-stuffed mattress, first lighting the tapestry, then the mattress, with the candle before exiting the room.

Checking the hallway, she inched her way to the stair, sword and dagger in hand, each step feeling as though a knife pressed deep into her side. Closing her mind to the pain, Anna stopped in an alcove to listen for footfalls and voices. Nothing within the keep made a sound. All noise came from outside. The stairs ended in a large hall filled with tables, benches and a large hearth. She found it empty.

The double doors stood ajar, allowing the sounds of battle at the walls inside. A glance around the bailey showed no activity, though the top of the walls were thick with MacNairn warriors armed with bows, most concentrating on the main gate. She scanned the wall and spotted a small postern gate unguarded from below. Only two men stood above it.

Needing an additional diversion and way out, Anna silently made her way to the stables, sticking to the shadows along the way. She had to move quickly, as the fire in the tower would soon alert the men. Her muscles protested, echoing the pain in her side and head. Dizziness threatened to take over, but she willed it back. Slipping through a side door, she entered the stables.

The horses stamped their nervousness, sensing the tension in the air from the battle raging outside. Stalking the length of the stables, she spotted a young man of no more than ten and two summers on duty, his attention on the window. Not wanting to seriously injure him, she quietly approached from behind.

She struck a blow to the side of his neck with the flat edge of her hand, rendering him unconscious. Grasping his shoulders, she dragged the lad out the door and into the bailey. She grabbed a bridle from a hook and fitted a large, dark horse. Leading him to the rear of the stables, she opened each stall along the way, allowing the horses to walk out the large double doors.

The score or so horses seemed confused to be free and entered the yard slowly. Anna tossed a lantern into a large stack of hay at the back of the stables, then led her horse outside. She clasped his bridle tightly and led him toward the unwatched smaller gate, the rest of the horses milling behind her.

She picked the rusted lock, then jammed the guard’s smaller dagger into the upper hinge, bending the blade slightly, leaving the gate wedged open. The fires at the stables and tower grew larger, the men’s shouts warning her they’d been spotted. Forcing herself onto her horse’s back, she struggled upright, gasping at the pain in her side. The fires further agitated the horses, and they stampeded, neighing loudly in alarm. Discovering the open gate, they funneled out of the yard as fast as the small opening allowed.

Pressing against the neck of her horse, Anna kept to the middle of the herd, hidden by the mass of frightened horseflesh. Once outside the gates, she rode directly to the edge of the forest a few hundred yards away. Reaching the shelter of the trees, she halted and glanced toward the keep for signs of pursuit. Only an empty field lay between her and the curtain wall. Flames lit the sky from the burning keep. She had escaped.

Though the thin moon allowed little light, she could discern formations of men on the edge of the forest, and she made her way to the closest group. More than a dozen men armed with claymores, broadswords, crossbows and axes immediately surrounded her. Several carts rested near them. She’d apparently interrupted them loading a small trebuchet. Large ceramic jars rested in the carts beside the wooden apparatus. From the smell, they contained Greek fire.

Anna slid to the ground and raised her hands, leaning against her horse’s shoulder. “I am Anna of clan MacGregor, betrothed of Duncan MacGregor.”

A squat, bald man, who seemed as broad as he was tall, eyed her narrowly. “If ye are who ye say ye are, why are ye dressed as a MacNairn?” His voice rumbled as gruff as his appearance.

“I had no choice of clothing and took what was available. If I can be brought to any MacGregor or Elliot, you can confirm my identity. I assume my capture is the reason forces are gathered here. Once it is known I am safely away from the MacNairn, many lives can be spared.”

The bald man spat on the ground. “Aye, the Stewarts fight alongside the MacGregors and Elliots this day, but naught will save Baen MacNairn from his fate. His death is long overdue. If ye speak the truth, the MacGregor captain will be relieved his bride-to-be is free.”

A warrior took her horse. Anna nodded her thanks. “The MacNairn Laird is no more. I broke the foul beast’s neck with my own hands,” she said, her voice harsh with pain and anger.

Her claim brought a buzz of speculation from the group of men surrounding them. The leader gave her an appraising look, suggesting he didn’t believe her.

“Just the same, I will be taking yer weapons, lass.”

She handed over the weapons she’d taken from the MacNairn, but hesitated in giving up her
sgian dubh.
Feeling the effects of her wounds—along with lack of food or water during captivity—bearing down on her, Anna hit her limit and staggered. She raised her chin and fixed her gaze on the man.

“This was a gift to me from Duncan MacGregor. I shall not give it up willingly.”

Seeing the MacGregor crest on the hilt, the man gave a hint of a smile and nodded. He turned his back and walked toward the main body of retainers. Anna followed, along with five other men behind, one of whom led the horse she’d stolen.

They passed behind several more groups of Stewart warriors before finally arriving at a group of MacGregors.

“Lady Anna!”

She turned at the sound of her name and saw Liam break into a run toward her. Overwhelmed at finally seeing a friendly face, she stumbled the last few steps and embraced him.

“Easy now, lass. The lairds and captain will be glad to see ye safe. I told ye, attack one MacGregor, ye attack us all.”

Exhausted, she staggered behind Liam as they headed toward the lairds. In the darkness, Anna couldn’t see the rocks, and her bare feet suffered for it. She was past caring, and a little more pain made no difference. She heard her name spoken as others recognized her, some offering thanks for her escape. Anna was about to tell Liam she had to stop to rest when she spotted her betrothed seated on his bay horse.

“Duncan.” Though it was barely a whisper, he swiveled in her direction. Before her next step, he held her in his arms.

“Thank the saints, Anna. I thought I had lost ye.”

The warmth of his breath brought comfort as he buried his face in her hair. But the weight of the past sennight caught up with her and she shook uncontrollably, clutching him as if her life depended on the contact. He brushed her hair back, his fingers grazing her wound. She winced.

“Ye are hurt.” His expression of relief twisted into angered concern. He pulled her closer to examine the poorly stitched gash in her head, uttering a curse when she flinched as he touched her ribs.

Tears streamed down Anna’s cheeks, drowning her attempt at a brave smile. She remembered what he’d called her the day she’d left. If he thought it then, what must he think now after spending days—and nights—in MacNairn’s dishonorable care?

Taking her by the hand, he led her away from the front line. She managed only a few wobbled steps before he swept her into his arms. Carrying her to a large tent many yards behind the rear of the formation, he lowered her onto a pallet, calling for food and drink. Someone brought a water skin, bread and cheese.

MacGregor entered, followed by her grandfather and a strong-looking older man she had not seen before.

“Anna, thank the heavens ye are safe.” Morey Elliot addressed her first, squatting on the floor by her side. Seeing her wound in the lantern light, he asked, “How fare ye?”

“I am feverish, fear—fear my wound is infected.” Still shaking, she fought back tears.

“Anna, this is Aeneas Stewart, Mairi’s father, my father-by-marriage,” Kenneth told her, introducing her to the older man.

The Stewart smiled warmly and nodded. “I see ye are as strong and brave a lass as my grandson tells me.”

They waited patiently for Anna to gather herself before pressing for information. After taking a few drinks of water and a few bites of bread, she took as deep a breath as her injured ribs allowed and recounted what she could remember. Much of it was muddled, particularly her memories of when things happened. She had no idea how many days she’d been in MacNairn’s grasp. As she described what the beast intended, Duncan stood abruptly, hands curling into fists as he paced the small space of the tent.